There’s a dim religious light about the thrum.
If you cannot be the candle, be the moth;
If you cannot be the weaver, be the cloth;
If Life’s waitresses say “Dicken!”
When you reach out for the chicken,
Cop the broth—
There’s a deal of consolation in the broth.
Doesn’t matter if you’re single or you’re wed,
Still the rose-leaves always crumble in your bed;
But the sea ahead is placid,